Stimulus
by jessa-beth
Summary: Days have passed without a case. Sherlock turns to an old form of recreation, and John expresses his disappointment. He suggests another means of distraction, but Sherlock finds the idea ludicrous, until giving it more serious thought. M Sherlock/John.
1. Cocaine

_This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. I am obsessed with BBC's Sherlock, and as I love ACD's canon series as well, I tried to reflect a bit of that in my writing.  
>Enjoy! There will be one more chapter after this, I believe, and yes, it will get dirty.<em>

**Part 1**

The cases were light these days. On the tube one particular day, I found myself wondering why that was. Were criminals just feeling particularly chipper lately? Was there some awful scheme behind the lack of crime? I shuddered at the thought, entertaining the daunting idea that professor Moriarty could be planning something. Sherlock always said that man was behind most of the crime in London anyway. I let out a sigh, thinking of Sherlock. The poor sleuth was twisted with boredom in these dark times. Only for a man like Sherlock would crime-light days be considered dark. For him, having no case was like death. I feared returning home to find him in one of his deepest, intense depressions. These were only too common for my friend when he had no case to sink his teeth into. Just the other day, I had returned to 221b after surgery to realize with a shock that the sleuth had set fire to his armchair. I put it out obediently, and intended to chide him for it when he emerged. You see, my friend had been sulking violently in his bedroom, and though I waited patiently all night, he never emerged. I didn't see him when I left this morning, and wondered if I would see him this evening.

I arrived at the flat after a crowded ride home to find him sprawled upon the couch. It was relieving to at least catch him out of his room, but there was certainly no cheer in the air about him. He seemed to have wandered out into the sitting room by accident, and he looked to me as though he wasn't entirely sure where he was. I felt fear strike my gut as he turned his head slowly to look at me. "Sherlock?" His eyes were glossy. His face was placid. The flat was dead cold, but there he lay in nothing but some sweats and his well-worn robe. I couldn't help but notice that his skin was a more sickly pallor than usual. The flesh of his bare chest was raised in the chill of the night, but he didn't even seem to realize it. His lips looked almost blue. "Sherlock, what's happened?"

The man smiled in a daze. "Nothing, John. I am quite well." His deep rumbling voice, so like that of a jet engine, sounded agitated. Something glowed behind his eyes. "I am better than I have been in a long while." He flashed me a most uncommon smile, and I glared at him suspiciously.

"What is the matter with you? Something isn't right about you this evening."

Sherlock simply laughed dully. He lay his dark head back on the armrest, his eyes appearing very far away, as though he were lost in thought. "An old friend has come to welcome me back," he sighed. He flexed his fists strangely. I was confused, and completely unsure what he meant by it.

"What do you-?" I began, but as I took some steps towards my chair, I saw on our side-table what he referred to. A long, empty syringe sat openly by the lamp there. The sight of it sent a thrill of shock and sadness to my heart. "Sherlock," I moaned, sinking into my chair and letting my face fall into my hands. The famed consulting detective looked at me slowly, then suddenly stood bolt upright in a flash. He began to pace, saying nothing at all. I rumpled my hair, at an utter loss for words.

Watching my best mate pace back and forth, I imagined through a haze of misery that I could practically _see_ the cocaine pumping through his veins. I shook my head, trying to knock the thought loose and send them away. "Sherlock," I said again. "I thought you were clean."

The man did not stop pacing. His face was blank. "I was," he said. "These are desperate times, however, my friend. My mind has been cold and inactive for _two days_, now. I have felt, at times, that I am drowning in a black hole within my brain."

"But I thought we got rid of it all," I spat.

He gave one loud boom of a laugh. "Please, John," he said condescendingly. "What sort of imbecile do you think I am? I keep off it out of respect for you and for Mycroft, but I always have a safety net. Always."

I stood, not really knowing why I did so. Maybe it was just to be on his level as he continued his pacing. "But you were completely addicted before! It is so horrible for you, Sherlock. I can't stand it. As a doctor, especially, I can't stand it."

He stopped pacing, and looked me dead in face. His pupils were pin-pricks. He must be damn high and out of his sodding head. "It isn't up to you, though, is it?" he growled. His face looked rabid. It scared me.

"Where is it, Sherlock?" He didn't answer, but smirked at me. "Sherlock Holmes, you tell me where it is this instant!" He rolled his head back in a laughing snort, and flopped back onto the couch again, looking suddenly unconscious.

I went searching for it, then. I opened every drawer, and overturned every paper, folder, and vase in my hunt for his stash. "Oh, come off it, John," Sherlock said. His voice was a low moan. "I need the stimulation when there is none to be had elsewhere. I'm not going to use again like I did before. But I needed it this time, John. If you could have felt how empty it was without the stimulus... if you could know how dark it gets in here..." I glanced at him. His eyes were shut tightly, his brow furrowed, and his fingers were drumming rapidly upon his temples. "...If you knew, you would understand the need I have for the comfort of my old friend. You would understand how welcome it is today."

"Stop it," I snarled. "You know better than this, Sherlock."

"And you know _nothing_," Sherlock slurred. "God, you're boring." The last part was spoken under his breath. I stopped my search for his cocaine bottle then. I would tell Mycroft about this later, and I knew he could have the place searched better and more thoroughly than I could. I looked at my dearest friend in disbelief and despair. Without even opening his eyes, Sherlock knew I was reacting. "Oh, please, John, don't take that the wrong way. You know everyone is boring to me, and you're no exception. Mind you, you still manage to be percentages more interesting than a majority of the population, doctor. You still succeed at being a faithful and trustworthy companion, and a dear friend."

I was touched, but my fury had not subsided. "Sherlock," I said more quietly now. "I understand. I really, really do. Heaven knows I've lived with you long enough and been through enough with you to know the kind of man you are. I won't dare to assume I understand you, but I do understand at least that you are what you are. I know what you need," -and for some reason my voice cracked- "but it still pains me to see you resort to these measures again. There must be other ways for you to get your kicks off."

Sherlock's lips pursed. He placed his fingertips together, and sat upright, leaning towards me with that stony face of his. His light eyes dazzled at me in the dim light. So handsome was he. "What do ordinary people do, then, John? How do you live without the constant flow of stimulus? How do you live without the work and the adventure... and then without the cocaine?"

I shrugged. "We... watch the telly?" I suggested. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back, a shadow crossing his face. "We go out to the pub?"

"And what makes that different from the use of cocaine? It's all just chemicals designed to keep us entertained, isn't it."

Ignoring him, I went on, trying to remain lighthearted about it all. "We talk to our mates? Shop? Date? Shag?"

The geniuses eyes were stunningly white and shining in this light. His pupils looked invisible in the glare from the lamp, as they were such specks at the moment anyway. His arms were twitching. "Sex," he mumbled. "I'll never understand it." I almost choked on my own tongue. I glanced away from him awkwardly. It was strange to hear Sherlock talk about sex, being so the asexual being he was. It made me a little uncomfortable. I shifted in my seat, and clasped my hands together wryly. My friend snorted, clearly reading my body language. "And people say sex makes _me_ uncomfortable? I have no apprehension to the topic of sex, I simply don't understand its appeal. It's ordinary people like you who usually feel uncomfortable talking about it-and yet it's all you think about."

"It's not _all_ we think about," I mumbled grumpily.

"Why do people love it so much? Why do people lie and kill and go mad for it?" Sherlock's eyebrows sunk low. His brow was so knitted he seemed to age even as I looked at him. He looked genuinely confused. "What on earth is so good about sex, John?" He looked up at me, and I didn't see a hint of a joke on his face. Was he really asking me that as a serious question?

My mouth opened, but no words came out. I closed it, swallowed, then tried again. "I... don't know, Sherlock. It... feels really good? It adds some excitement to our minds and bodies and boring lives. Makes people happy. Makes them feel good and relieves stress and takes their minds off things."

"But why would anyone want to take their mind off anything? That's the problem with you stupid people. You're always trying to take your mind _off _things, instead of constantly thinking. It's what keeps you lot from being as clever as I am."

"Very nice, Sherlock," I said, rolling my eyes. "Why am I not even surprised by your immodesty anymore? Look, Sherlock, sex is a distraction from boredom. It's just like the stimulus you say you need all the time."

The tall, gaunt man stood up quickly, then sat again. A vein was throbbing in his neck, and I could see it even from here. I had a feeling the drug was agitating his body, making him antsy and wired. It gave me great distress to see my mate this way. "How is it the same? I wish I understood!" He said it through gritted teeth. A drop of sweat slid from beneath Sherlock's hairline, and slipped down his forehead. It made me worry. I was afraid he might overdose. It is very easy to OD as it is, and Sherlock being a man to rarely eat or sleep... well, it certainly made me anxious.

I smiled down at my knees for a second, then looked back up at my flat mate. "You know there is a solution to that, Sherlock," I said with a laugh in my tone.

"What's that?" He was serious. He looked at me as though I was legitimately saying something absurd.

"Well-" I exhaled a little, bewildered by his ignorance as always. "You could... find someone to have sex with?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Sex is pointless."

"If it was, there would be no people in the world! If it was really that pointless, no one would have it. People _like_ it, Sherlock."

"Yes, but _why_?" He wrung his hands as through frustrated with the world. His long, skeletal fingers were trembling.

"Sherlock!" I cried, exasperated. "You can find out for yourself, you great buffoon! There are ways around not knowing this one bit of information. You can go out in the world and experience it for yourself!"

"But it does not serve the work, John," he sighed, flopping back into a lying down position again. Apart from his lips which moved slightly as he talked, my friend greatly resembled a corpse. He was so motionless; so colorless. "It makes so little sense to desire something so trivial. Nothing could be more useless."

I scoffed. "By that logic, the same can be said about the cocaine, Sherlock. Don't you realize that? It's just a means of distraction for a troubled mind. Just like your cocaine." Sherlock did not so much as move an inch. I could barely tell if he was even breathing. I watched him for some time before becoming worried. "Sherlock?"

"John," he responded, and I let out a sigh of relief. It was then that he opened his eyes again, and something seemed to be clicking with him. I could practically hear the whirs and buzzes of his mind suddenly pushing into overdrive like a computer struggling very hard to process something. "John," he said again, and his voice was as low and slow as it ever could be. It was a soothing sound. I sat back, enjoying the plush surroundings of my chair envelop me. It was extremely cold in the flat, but I felt alright. How Sherlock could be alright dressed like that, though, I didn't know. I sighed, and gazed at him calmly, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, I cocked my head and blinked impatiently several times.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The sleuth turned his rather elegant head towards me. His eyes were narrow but wild with a strange element I could not place. It was the sort of curious expression Mr. Holmes only held when he was dealing with a most peculiar case. I loved that expression. It gave me a shock of excitement every time, and I could never resist the tiny smile that slipped over my face. My great friend, the magnificent Sherlock Holmes: he sure has a way of exciting that curiosity in me. The mystery he could provoke with just a look-it was quite extraordinary, indeed. It was why I lived with him after all this time. As maddening as he could be, he was the most incredible friend anyone could ask for. He gave me a fantastic life-the _best_ life, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. So as he stared into my eyes now, I experienced that excited feeling, like we were about to go on an adventure. My grin was irrepressible as I waited for him to speak. It seemed minutes before he actually said anything again, simply glaring into my eyes the whole time. "So," he said slowly, drawing out the syllable. "John. You say to me that the want for sex is just like my want for cocaine in my state of boredom."

I shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that is what I'm saying."

Sherlock swallowed dramatically, and flexed his left arm. His clenched fist was shaking. The bathrobe's sleeve was rolled up, and for the first time I spotted the track marks in his arm. My heart twanged at the sight, and I looked away quickly. "It does help," he said quietly. "The sweet bottle. My dear old friend." As though I didn't know what he was talking about.

"I mean, of course, it's not as though it feels exactly the way cocaine does," I clarified.

"Don't be stupid, John." Sherlock was impassive. "I would never suspect that was what you meant. What you meant was that it serves a similar purpose."

"Exactly."

My flat mate never took his eyes off me as he sat up suddenly. "It would be better for me," he muttered. He rested his elbows on his knees and the glazed look in his eyes appeared to grow.

"Sorry?" I questioned. "What was that?"

"It would be better for me than cocaine. Less destructive to my most necessary tool. I need the stimulus, but it would be healthier to find a means that would not damage me the way this does." He flexed his arm again and grunted as though it pained him-or possibly as though a wave of pleasure was running through him.

My teeth clenched. My jaw muscles tensed. I felt ashamed of him suddenly; it was not much of a new feeling to be honest. I wanted him to be clean so badly. I wanted my friend to be alright. "So what you're saying is..." I actually laughed as I spoke, though I didn't mean to. "_You_... want to have... _sex_?"

"Want?" Sherlock's thick eyebrows rose high. His mind was working madly. I could tell. "I don't know if want would be the right word. I think that what I mean to say is that I need something to replace the cocaine, as I clearly continue to need such stimulus. It would be useful and beneficial to find something else-something not damaging to my system." He said this all very fast, and looked as contemplative as ever I'd seen him.

I tilted my head. "So... you want to try to have sex, instead."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slumped. "I suppose, if it makes sense for you to put it that way, then _yes_." He ruffled his curls, and his legs started to bounce furiously. "I can't imagine it would be worth it, or any more stimulating to my genius than my sweet drug could be." His eyes closed, and the corner of his mouth twitched subtly as though to smile. I wondered vaguely, with a long intake of breath through my nose, whether or not he was just taking in the feeling of the chemical rushing over his brain, crawling through his veins. He looked so peaceful just then, so serious but so peaceful, that I thought him beautiful in that moment. My heart leapt a little at the thought. _God, no_. I flinched and shivered a bit, casting the idea from my mind as Sherlock stood and resumed his former pacing. I decided then and there that this was the end of the conversation. I wondered if Sherlock would notice, in his drug-induced state, that I had gone. I stood and retreated to my bedroom then, but before ascending the steps, I took a glance back at him.

There he was, my dearest friend. He was muttering to himself. For all I knew, he might still be talking to me. I smiled to myself, and left my flat mate to it, hoping he would sober up quickly and not indulge his boredom in his beloved bottle again.


	2. Sex

_Hello, friends! Here is part 2. Enjoy! And thanks for reading!  
><em>_Keep in mind that it is quite dirty, so do not read it if you find sex offensive, got it?__  
><em>

**Part 2**

It was only another couple of hours before I saw Sherlock again. I had expected not to see him for the rest of the night, but that was not the case. It was close to midnight, and I was already in my pajamas and settling down to read my book, when a knock arrived upon my bedroom door. I looked around. _Mrs. Hudson?_ I wondered. "Come in," I called languidly, sitting at the edge of my bed and facing the door expectantly. To my surprise, it was my friend and colleague, the great Sherlock Holmes. He looked a little lost, though his face still held that stoic strength it always did. He had dressed in his usual suit since last I saw him, no longer lounging about in his old robe. "Sherlock!" I sputtered. "Uh..." I glanced about, as though something in the room would explain to me why he had showed up at my door. Sherlock never came to my bedroom, you see. The man lived in the sitting room, in the kitchen, in his cases, and aside from occasionally sleeping in his own bed, he rarely occupied a bedroom at all (except for those instances when he suffered his blackest depressions, like the last couple of days). In fact, in my memory, I could not recall _ever_ seeing him in my bedroom. "Sherlock, I've never seen you come into my room before. What is it?"

He scoffed. "Of course you've never _seen_ me, John, but I am not entirely unfamiliar with your bedroom."

My face fell slack. "You-oh, y'know what, nevermind." I shook my head in resigned acceptance. Sherlock would always be Sherlock. He would always hack my laptop and invade my privacy, and that would never change. I was unfazed by it now. "Well, do you want to... I don't know-sit down, or something?" I motioned to the area of my bed beside me. He walked over to the bed very slowly. He looked like he was sweating in this light, but I couldn't really tell. Deep shadows were cast over his face by the scowl he wore. The yellow light of the bedside lamp highlighted the dramatic peak of his cheekbones, hollowing out his face and making him seem even more gaunt and skeletal than usual. He looked dreadful as he sat. "Sherlock?" I pried. "You okay?"

"The emptiness returned," he growled. It was his over dramatic way of saying that his narcotic had worn off, and he knew not what to do with himself. He crushed his fingertips to his eyelids, looking stressed. I wondered if his head was paining him. It sure seemed to be. He groaned.

"So," I said hesitantly. "You're bored again?"

"I am _always_ bored, John," Sherlock muttered. He was so very pale. The man looked like death. "The blackness of my boredom is all-consuming and miserable._ I need a case!_" He gritted his teeth, and pounded his fist onto my bed, causing the mattress to wobble a bit. I steadied myself. "I need," he said in his lowest and most dangerous voice, "_stimulus_."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, Sherlock, not _again_. You are just barely sober! _Please_ don't return to the bottle again. You _don't_ need it, despite what you think. There are so many other ways of getting off, you damned idiot. You're cleverer than this."

His fingers were twitching. "I am clever," he said. "_Too _clever. I forgot how soothing the drug can be, and I need that feeling if I wish not to die from this... _boredom!_"

"Oh, don't be such a baby," I snapped. "You're being so dramatic. It's ridiculous. Go out and _do _something, why don't you?"

"There is nothing to do!" he cried, throwing up his hands.

"There's always something."

"No. There's nothing. I need a distraction. It's why I have my good old friend about, just in case."

I stood suddenly, perhaps only to make a dramatic gesture so he would catch how serious I was. "If you use the cocaine again, I _will_ tell Mycroft! What do you think he'd do about it, hm?"

My friend chuckled at that. "Oh, please. I have skirted around Mycroft hundreds of times. What makes you think I couldn't do it again, and in my own flat, no less?" His smile was infuriatingly smug. He began to run his eyes over my body, and I had a fear he was about to start deducing me. "I see you've got a new razor," he said shortly. "What is this, the fourth in the last month?"

"I can't find one that won't irritate," I said in a huff. Damn that man. His cleverness sent a strange tingle deep into my belly. I have never admired another person the way I admired Sherlock Holmes. No one else in the world had a mind like that. No one. The only person who came close was his own brother, but Mycroft was too lazy to ever live up to the mind of his talented sibling.

"Did your date yesterday notice that you wore dirty clothes out with her?"

"How-?"

"Elementary," Sherlock said quickly. "You did your laundry three days ago, yet there are only two shirts and a single pair of trousers in your laundry basket at the present. Obvious, as always, doctor. You must not have liked her very much."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Not particularly, no," I said.

"And when do you plan on finding one you do like?"

I stared at him. "Sherlock," I cooed. "I don't _plan_ it. I just... give it a go. Can't you understand that?"

"Is it about sex?" I blushed, and he looked at me with his coldest expression. "Are you bored, too? Are you bored with the life I provide?"

"What?" My mind spun. What on earth was he on about? "Sherlock... what are you even talking about? That doesn't make sense."

Sherlock stood. He was taller than me. I wondered if he was trying to express his superiority in our relationship, as though I wasn't aware of it already. "Of course it makes sense, John. Just think." He cocked his head. "You just explained to me a minute ago that sex works as a distraction from the boredom, just as my dear drug does for me." A minute ago? Oh, dear. He hadn't noticed I'd gone.

"Oh, Sherlock, no," I said coolly, shaking my head. "I could never be bored with you in my life. I could never." His eyes brightened, and my heart skipped a beat. I swallowed. My nerves were screaming at the feeling that had just leapt in my chest. I pushed it away. "Sex isn't solely for boredom though, Sherlock. It's... like..." God! How does one explain something like sex to an apparently asexual genius? I felt incapacitated by my own stupidity. Sherlock could tell. He moved closer to me. He was too close; I could feel his breath on my hairline. I took a step backward. "I don't know what to tell you."

"I want to understand," Sherlock hissed. "I want to know why, and I want a distraction." He looked crazed. He stepped towards me again, his long hands clasped behind his back. "I need the distraction."

"But the cocaine," I began, but he cut me off.

"Not the cocaine this time, John." His eyes glittered. His breath grew shallow. "I will refrain from using it again, though I do want it." He cleared his throat, and he was so close to me that I could see his neck veins pulse with the desire. "I will refrain from it because I have respect for you and your concern for me. You have explained there is another way, and I should like to try it. _Anything_ to fill the deep space in my head. It's horrible. I want it gone. I need distraction."

I cleared my throat anxiously. "I... explained...?"

"Sex," he said bluntly. My stomach lurched.

A moment of silence passed, and suddenly I found myself laughing. "You're going to go find someone to have _sex_ with? _Brilliant!_"

Sherlock sniffed uncomfortably. "Hardly brilliant," he mumbled. "I am in dire need, John. It is not exactly a laughing matter." He smoothed the front of his suit jacket. "I do not wish to have sex with anyone who could potentially think I actually _want _them or care about them, and I would need them at my full disposal." His nostrils flared. "That is why I have come to you."

Silence struck between us once again. Sherlock was staring into my eyes. They looked pale green in this dim yellow light. It gave me a shiver to gaze into them, they were so violently intense. Having those eyes bare into me was like taking a knife to the chest. Their brightness could hurt. "Me?" I whispered at last. "What are you talking about?"

My colleague rolled his head about in exasperation as though I was being particularly dense. The look he gave me was one I was completely familiar with. It was the look that said: _How are you not getting this? It's perfectly obvious to me, my dear Watson!_ "Don't be stupid," he snarled through clenched teeth. "I am talking about sex."

"And what do you want _me_ to do about sex, Sherlock?" A tiny voice in my head told me _he is asking you to have sex with him, John_, but I ignored it. That could not be it. Was Sherlock gay? I didn't even know. Was he straight? I didn't know that, either. I didn't think Sherlock had any sort of sexual urges to begin with! He was a sexless being, one that ran on genius and needed nothing like sex. But here he was, basically expressing to me that he needed what I thought he'd never need in his life.

My friend sighed. His voice was at its deepest tremor when he spoke. "I want you to show me what it is about. You are my only friend, John, and the only one I'd trust to help me understand. I want you to be my distraction."

I felt my heart drop from my chest cavity into my stomach. Seconds later, it seemed to bounce up into my throat so I could not speak. I coughed.

"What's the matter, John?" Sherlock asked seriously, hitting me firmly on the back to help me along. "I thought you were fond of sex."

I was light-headed and dizzy. I had to sit down again. Flopping onto the bed once more, I said, "I _am_ fond of it! But... with _you_?"

Sherlock looked pleasantly oblivious. "Come now, I know you are not entirely disinterested in men, my good doctor. No man who shares the looks you do with the backsides of other men and dramatically insinuates that 'people will talk' every time you and I touch each other in public could be straight like an arrow. It can't be _so _new to you. Surely you're not _that _stupid."

"Well, I am. I mean... it is... new to me," I said lamely. My chest was thumping so hard that it hurt. My whole body felt numb. "I've never..." I shook my head. "I've never even thought about..."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyebrow twitched curiously, but he seemed unaffected otherwise. "I see. My mistake then." He turned on his heels to go, but I forced myself to my feet at that moment.

"Wait," I said unsteadily. I was weak where I stood, but I didn't want him to leave. All the blood seemed to have left me. I didn't know what I was saying. "I don't know. I mean. I do think you're... I mean... You're very attractive. What I mean to say is that... I don't know."

My best friend and flat mate was asking me to have sex with him? How could this even be real? He chuckled, and turned back to look at me. "Will you distract me, then?" he asked calmly. I stared at him, my eyes grazing the plane of his face as a strange hungry feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. His lips looked shockingly soft to me suddenly. His eyes were gorgeous.

In a sudden flood, all my repressed thoughts from the last several years burst forth as though a dam had broken. The times I'd thought him handsome or had admired his body became real in my mind for the first time. I had forgotten. I had forced them behind a curtain of denial before now. I would still not consider myself 'gay,' necessarily, for Sherlock was hardly just a man, but I had certainly been denying my attraction to the brilliant famed sleuth.

In two long strides, I crossed the room to where my friend stood by the door. My lips were on his so fast, I don't even remember making the conscious decision to kiss him. But there it was. He was soft like silk on my mouth. It was brilliant. This was no different than kissing a woman in many ways-but the feelings which raged in my heart were certainly new ones. I wondered if I had ever really been happy before this moment. I had my friend crushed to the wall, completely paralyzing his mouth as I kissed him slowly. A minute passed of this one long kiss before I pulled myself away to look at him. Sherlock looked surprised, but interested. I could almost see the experience being filed in that organized mind of his. His eyes were so contemplative. I wondered what he was thinking, knowing this was his very first kiss. I was surprised, therefore, when he leaned in for another. I imagined silently that an act this physical accomplished nothing for the genius, but his mouth was delicious to me and I could barely hold another thought in my head as our lips entwined. My chest was pressed against his. I could feel his heart beat beside mine. I loved him. I loved my best friend. I really did. _Shit._

Growing eager, I drew my tongue along the line of Sherlock's mouth. He shuddered. A quiet "Hm," escaped him, and I stopped.

"Something wrong?" I asked cautiously.

"Hardly," Sherlock assured me. "I am just... surprised... by my physical response to this simple event." I raised my eyebrows. So clinical was he, as always.

"What do you mean?"

He glanced down between us. "You have caused my pulse to elevate. Breathing feels difficult. My stomach feels... and I..."

"I know," I said, quieting the scientist. He looked at me, and he seemed almost frightened. He had never experienced feeling like this before. I touched his cheek with my fingertips. "It's normal." He inhaled deeply, and leaned in to kiss me again. I could tell he was registering his body's reactions still, but I didn't mind. It felt so good to have him this close. I never could have imagined it. We breathed deeply from each other's mouths, and I slipped my tongue into him then. Our kiss became deep, and passionate. Sherlock's skin was cold, but his mouth was warm and wet and soft. It made my loins stir. I could feel my friend's reaction upon my thigh already. It felt massive.

His hands were upon my back, pressing me closer. I trembled in his grip. I had my palms pressed to the wall on either side of his shoulders. The flame that had erupted between our bodies was magnificent. It was unreal. Pleasure was coursing through me simply from being so close to this brilliant man. I never even knew before today that I had wanted this, but now I couldn't imagine _not _wanting it.

I stopped suddenly as I realized that what I wanted at that moment was to have him on my bed. He was gorgeous, and clever, and he turned me on just by being him. I took him by the hands and moved backwards to the bed until the backs of my legs collided with it. My eyes were locked with Sherlock's the entire journey. I sat, and he sat at my side. "What happens now?" he asked seriously. I laughed.

"I don't know, Sherlock. How is it feeling?"

"My emptiness?" He shrugged. "I certainly am experiencing things I never thought I could, and it certainly is distracting to the black hole which means to consume me. I suppose that means this is helping."

I sczootched closer to him, and I heard his breath catch. "I'm glad." I kissed him again, more roughly, and this time he groaned. It surprised me so much that I pulled back again. "What was that?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at me. He looked delightfully devious. "I liked that," he said with a tone of surprise. "This feels..." he leaned into my mouth again before whispering in that low purr of his, "...good." I shivered and moaned as his lips sank back onto mine. I grabbed his head in my hands. My desire for him had reached a painful level. Sherlock's unbelievably long fingers slid to the back of my skull. He was holding me to his mouth as though worried I might stop kissing him. I reassured him by entangling my own fingers into his hair and giving it a firm tug. He moaned. The sound aroused me so deeply, I found myself suddenly as hard as I could ever have been. I guess he liked having his hair pulled. I tightened my grip on those curls, and the broad-shouldered man suddenly broke the kiss as his whole body arched in an unprecedented shudder. "What was that?" he asked, his voice shaking with surprise.

I laughed. "It means you liked what I did to you. It's called pleasure."

"Pleasure," he said with a smile. He shook off his suit jacket, and placed it aside. "How interesting. Do it again."

I grabbed his hair roughly and using my grip to control him, I lay him back. His eyes were closed, and his lips were parted slightly. His breathing was heavy. I let my tongue explore the warm depths of Sherlock's mouth while he lay pinned to the bed beneath me. He tasted sweet. His body was responding to my dominance all over. Tiny unfamiliar noises kept escaping his throat, and they served as my encouragement. I kissed him more and more deeply with every passing second. His hands started fumbling at the buttons of my pajama shirt. I let him work it off of me as we kissed, feeling vaguely surprised by it through the haze of arousal that was clouding my mind. As it slipped down my shoulders and off my back onto the floor, Sherlock's long white fingers grazed my bare chest.

That was it. I was undone. I couldn't stand it a second longer. I withdrew from his face. I was straddling the man, his extraordinary bulge pressing against me hard. I tugged viciously at his shirt. I suddenly needed to shag this man more than I could remember needing anything else in my life. His already strained buttons popped with little effort. I tore the damaged shirt from him and flung it to the ground. Sherlock's shapely torso was absolutely stunning. I bent and licked him from his stomach all the way up to his collar bones. He was groaning as I did so, and I loved it. I sunk my teeth into his shoulder. I had never been so rough with a woman. I was never like this-ever. But something about Sherlock was tearing this out of me; something deep within me that I had never been in touch with before was suddenly raging, and I needed it to be free. Sherlock writhed as I bit him, and he did not demand that I stop. I growled into his flesh and bit him harder until he was shouting my name to the ceiling in his pain. I laughed, and kissed the ridges in his skin that I had created there.

"That was-" Sherlock breathed. I didn't let him finish, however. I kissed him again, cutting him off. I ran my hands down his chest. He had goosebumps. I reached down between us and undid the button of my friend's trousers. I felt him tremble. I moved off of him to pull his trousers down, exposing him to me. I felt, as I tossed Sherlock's pants to the ground, that I had forgotten how to breathe. Until this moment, I had sort of forgotten that Sherlock was really a man at all, and that this was not the sex I was used to. I cleared my throat. My flat mate lay there, looking anxious. He was completely naked, and I was sitting over him staring down at his body. I would have been nervous in his position, as well. But God how I loved him. He gave me a life I wouldn't give up for anything. He gave me life. I had been so alone, and he gave me the world. I owed him everything.

At that thought, I descended upon him. With my mouth around him, Sherlock's face lit up in a silent scream. His sparkling eyes widened; his mouth became a perfect O. His body thrashed. He clutched the sheets at his side with stark white fingers. His chest rose and fell shallowly as he struggled to control his breathing. I took him deeply, and caressed his thighs gently. What a strange feeling it was. I thought of the women who'd done this for me in the past. I was so happy to please Sherlock; so happy to give him this distraction from his oppressively bored mind. The man cried aloud, squirming absolutely uncontrollably. I watched him from where I was. The whole situation was so unreal, I felt like I was barely occupying my own body. My fingers were not my own, and these legs that I was touching were not Sherlock's. My mouth, clamped around Sherlock, felt detached from myself; yet I loved every second of this. This was what I'd wanted all this time. I wanted to make Sherlock mine, to love him and help him express something he never would ordinarily.

"John," Sherlock cried. I stopped what I was doing and sat up to meet his face.

"Yes, friend?"

He looked scared. I stroked his cheek. "I..." he shut his eyes tightly. He looked as though he was in pain. "This is strange."

"Yes, it is," I said. "Should we stop?"

Sherlock shook his head. I was surprised. I had half expected him to say _Yes, and let's never speak of this again_. I kissed him gently.

"I think," he said, "that I appreciated it when you hurt me."

My groin throbbed at his words. "_What?_" I asked incredulously.

"Is it inappropriate to express what I liked?" he asked, looking genuinely worried that he was doing something wrong.

"No, no!" I assured him. "It's good! I'm just surprised."

"Why? When you bit me it felt excellent. I felt waves of physical excitement that only mystery and cocaine have ever provided for me before." My heart tightened. I was touched. I really was causing him to feel something. I had never been so proud. I kissed him hard, and I felt his nails scrape my back. He wanted me to hurt him, so I would. I removed his hands from my back and held them to the bed at his sides. I knew he was stronger than me, but I was strong enough to hold his arms down when I had him in such a compromising position. I bit his chest. I heard his hissing intake of breath and felt a throb of pleasure shoot between my legs. I wanted him badly. I bit harder and harder until my friend was shouting "Stop, John! Stop!" When I did stop and looked at him, we both laughed. It was a moment of bonding. "I feel so good," he said. "It's weird, and wonderful. Thank you for doing this."

My resolve faltered at his gracious words. I had never done this with a man before, but at least I had experience, and Sherlock was in this situation for the very first time of his life. I was his first. The thought made my heart swell.

The virgin looked at me expectantly. He wanted me to take control. I sat up and took my trousers off, completely aware of the fact that this was my best friend for whom I was stripping. He could deduce a man's whole life from the state of his sleeve. What could he deduce from my naked body? I wondered. I pushed the thought from my mind, however. This was not the time for that. His cleverness was certainly sexy, but I couldn't stand getting self-conscious about what he could read from me at a time like this. I clambered back on top of him. We were naked together. He radiated heat unto me. He had been so cold before, but he was warming up now. Arousal could do that to a person. I loved that body like I'd never loved another. I gazed upon it hungrily and took it into my arms with the intention of claiming it. But the fact remained that I didn't know what to do from there.

I had Sherlock's legs pinned between my knees. His erection was nagging at mine, and it felt glorious. I sighed, feeling our body parts touch and reveling in it. I dug my fingernails into his chest, igniting a fantastic squeal from the detective. I shivered excitedly at the sight of the pleasure on his face. I'd never seen him so happy. He was really a beautiful person. My beautiful genius.

The pale flesh of his chest was riddled with little red marks from my nails. A few of those half-moon spots were leaking blood. Sherlock's eyes were glossy, the way they were when he had been high on the cocaine hours before. He looked dazed, in ecstasy. One of my hands trailed down his center line, and caressed the base of his erection. My friend twitched madly all over, emitting small groans as he did. I smiled. I let my fingers slip around to his backside, and I brushed him there gently, watching his eyes carefully to see if he would tell me to stop. He didn't. He just stared at me, waiting. I brought my hand to my face and spit in it. Sherlock knew. He always knew.

He lay his head back. His breathing was extremely heavy. On one of his deep exhales, I let one of my slippery fingers into him. There was much resistance, but Sherlock hardened further as I did it, so I knew it wasn't bad. I put my mouth on him again as I gently entered my virgin friend with my finger. I hoped the pleasure of my lips around him would ease the pain of me inside. It did, a little. He relaxed. I contemplated vaguely how I would love to have Sherlock do this to me (and if he did, how I would make the man cough and sputter as he sucked me, I thought with a thrill), but that was not for now. Tonight was about making Sherlock feel good; making his first experience with sex pleasurable. I entered a second finger. He moaned. I licked the whole length of him and he cried out incoherently. How unlike him. My pride felt absurdly inflated as I drove my friend to the absolute edge of sanity. His eyes were rolled back in his head. He was making totally nonsensical, almost inhuman sounds. I stretched him gingerly, taking my time and making sure it wasn't _too_ painful.

A while passed. I still had my fingers engaged with his backside and he was still enjoying it, but I didn't know at what point I was expected to proceed. Sherlock, as though he could read my thoughts (as ever), lifted me by the chin from between his legs. His cheeks were flushed and oddly damp. I couldn't tell if he was sweating or if his eyes had teared from the pain and the pleasure. "Please," he said firmly. I gazed at him, open-mouthed. "Please, John." I had never heard him beg or plead like that before, and it was strange to hear it now. In my shock, I must have just knelt there not responding for a long time, because he swatted my face gently to snap me out of it. "_Please_," he said again, more urgently this time. His eyes looked desperate. His hair was a mess. He looked uncharacteristically vulnerable, and I thought it was extremely sexy. I smiled, eager to shag him to the ends of the earth.

I spit more into my hand, and prepared the way. Our eyes were locked. I lifted his legs and rested them upon my shoulders. His eyes were bright and his gaze was shaky as he stared at me. We breathed in time with one another as I took him. We sighed together. It was an intense moment for us both. His body was pulsing rapidly. I could feel it around me as I held myself within him. His eyes betrayed a little pain, but he showed no sign of wanting me to withdraw. He looked eager, in fact. His insanely reflective eyes were baring into the very heart of me. I moaned low as I entered him deeper. Sherlock bit his soft lower lip. He seemed to be concentrating very hard on the sensation. I could not blame him. It was incredible. Feeling my friend from the inside out was one of the strangest and most intimate experiences I have ever had.

Deeper and deeper I went, until I couldn't go any further. I felt like I was going to burst already, but I held on. I gripped his hips tightly, bruising his white flesh there with my fingertips. Sherlock was panting heavily. "John," he moaned. "Please. Make me feel something more." His voice was low and rumbling, and I could feel it vibrating through him from the inside. It drove me wild. It was then that I pulled almost all the way out and rammed back in. Sherlock let out the most absurd noise, then: he _whimpered_. It was so quiet, but it was definitely there. It was the most amazing sound I'd ever heard. My gut twisted into knots. I could tell from his face that it hurt.

"Oh, Sherlock," I breathed. "Is this okay?"

He responded by rocking towards me, pulling me closer with his arms and drawing me in for a kiss. It forced me deeper within him, and we moaned deeply against one another's lips. I shagged him hard from then on, moving my hips as fast and as wildly as I could to make my dearest friend feel what he needed-to help his emptiness leave him. We fucked madly. It was hard and violent. Our grunting filled the room to its brim. He drew blood from my shoulder blades with his nails as I fucked him roughly. I sucked and bit the nape of his neck until it was a deep shade of purple in several spots. I forced three _exquisite_ orgasms out of poor Sherlock before finishing inside him at last. When I did, I fell to his side, drenched in cold sweat. The relaxed state of post-orgasm washed over me, but it didn't last long. Suddenly my body tensed. That was it. It was over, and I was realizing then what I had just done. In my passion, I hadn't given it proper thought before acting upon Sherlock's initial request.

"Well," Sherlock said in a slightly slurred voice. He sounded love-drunk, the way many people did post-coital. "Thank you, John." He sounded very official. "I found that extremely informative. I understand now," he added quietly, "why you say it does wonders as a distraction. What an excellent outlet for my pent up need of stimulation." He looked quite stunned. "My dear Watson," said he in a gentle voice most unlike Sherlock, "I am surprised and overjoyed to discover something of this multitude. It is _fantastic_!" He leapt to his feet, still completely nude. I laughed. "It's not funny, John," he said seriously, starting to pace again. "When my darkest boredom overtakes me from now on, even when I have no connection to my sweet cocaine, there may always be this-_sex, _which_ you_ can provide to ease my sufferingly bored brain!"

Relief swept over me at how normal he was acting, though I barely took in what he was saying. As he stamped backward and forward over the creaking floorboards, I realized it: everything was still as it had been before. A terrible fear had struck me deep within my bones, you see, that our experience had changed our friendship-that he would not want me as a companion anymore. Another fear was that he was displeased by what we'd done, but that did not seem to be the case at all! In fact, his face appeared to be glowing beneath that tousled head of his. I felt my heart pang longingly for him as I watched him mutter to himself. All I wanted suddenly was to hold him close, but I knew it could not happen.

Sherlock seemed to have forgotten about clothes. He ran out and down the stairs to the kitchen with every part of him hanging out for the world to see. I laughed openly as he left, finding the whole thing completely ridiculous. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and pulled my pajamas back on. I followed him down and settled myself into a chair at the table. He seemed as excited as he had been the last time he'd had a case to solve. He was bustling about the kitchen, frying eggs. I could not remember a time when he'd been this happy between cases. I smiled as I watched him, watched the bruises shine on his death-white skin under a thin layer of sweat. What a magnificent fellow my friend was, the one and only consulting detective in the world.

"John!" he exclaimed suddenly, shifting the pan on the stove.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I hope we get a case soon!"

I laughed. "Me too, Sherlock, old friend." He sounded so chipper.

"But, you know, if we don't, you will be around to help me again, won't you, John?" He cracked another egg into the pan.

Taken aback, I said nothing. I simply stared at him. Sherlock looked around at me.

"John," he said again in a low growling tone. "I can barely survive an idle mind, my friend. I need cases, but when I don't, I need an extra stimulant to get me through the time. Before, the cocaine was all I had. I hadn't been this idle in a very long time, but with such times descending again, I needed it again, John. I _needed_ it, and you _know_ it isn't good for me._ I _know it isn't good for me, as well," he admitted. "So if I could have another means of distraction, like you suggested..."

"Like_ I _suggested?"

"...then that would be extremely useful to my mind when I need it. It's for my sanity, John! My _sanity! _And unless I am very much mistaken, which I never am, then I can safely say that you enjoyed yourself, at least. Would I be wrong in assuming you would be there for me when I need a fix?" He spoke extremely fast, as usual. I barely knew what to say or how to react at all to something like that. All I could do was nod agreeably. What else could I do? He was my best friend. If he needed me, I'd always be there. Always. Sherlock smiled dully at me, and dumped a runny egg on a plate for me.

"I've never seen you cook before," I commented.

He shrugged. "Think of it as a thank you."

Between cases, Mr. Holmes went simply barmy as usual, but from that night on, he had a drug to help him cope with the boredom. He had me.

I still dated women sometimes, and Sherlock still remained married to his work. Honestly, very little changed between us after that night. All I can say is that between cases, we shagged fiercely like animals in heat. The man could only love one thing, of course: the work. If it was not the work, he did not care; if there was no work, he did not care about anything but exciting his mind and for that I was all that would satisfy. He could never love me, so although I continued to love him terribly, I would not tell him. I remained his instrument-another tool at his disposal to stroke his ego and fluff his idle mind when he needed. Sometimes I considered telling him how deeply my love for him ran, but then I thought how it might damage what we had, and I couldn't bare it. Things were good the way they were. All was as well as could be for a companion to the infamous sleuth, the infamous and brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

For the time being, my life was a good one, and I was happy.

_Thanks for reading, guys! Follow up story: Distraction._


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